Estel Renewed
by MamaStreet
Summary: These are a series of one-shots that I submitted to a LotR contest on Wattpad. They begin at the coronation of Aragorn and continue into the Fourth Age, based on the stories by Silverhand19.
1. Broken

_1 May, T.A. 3019_

The banners snapped gleefully in the wind, as if even they understood the magnitude of the day. Gondor once again had a king, a strong and wise king that did not falter in the face of evil. But as Ardith dressed in her black gown of mourning, she could not quite bring herself to share fully in her nation's joy. The cost had been so very high. Her hands shook slightly as she placed the embroidered head covering over her hair. Ríndir had always so admired her hair, long and honey colored. He'd run his hands through the long locks affectionately each night as they drifted off to sleep and called her his sunshine. Unwilling to see the golden waves fall over her shoulders now, Ardith kept her hair tightly braided and bound, only releasing the strands from their bonds once each night to comb it out before quickly returning them to their plaits.

As ready as she could possibly be, Ardith turned to leave her small house, situated on the third level of the great white city. Ríndir had often spoken of looking for a new house further up, and closer for her to walk to the citadel where she worked as a seamstress. But she'd dissuaded him each time. His own job took him to the lowest level, where he worked in the stables, and it seemed better to be closer to them, in case he was needed to quickly prepare horses for the soldiers to ride out. That was where he was when death found him, the great black army having swept through the first level without mercy. Ardith and their boys had been relatively safe in their house, which was on an inner street near the third level market, but when the great wall was breached, they were told to evacuate to the upper levels. It sounded as wisdom, until the orc siege engine had lobbed a massive stone at the battlement above them. When Ardith awoke some time later, covered in dust and rubble, her boys were both gone, their small bodies lifeless beside her. Medlindir and Gauldir - such strong names for boys that never had a chance to grow into them. The days following were lost to her, as she walked hazily through a nightmare existence, not knowing what to do or how to move forward. Seemingly heedless of her pain, the city began cleaning up and preparing for the great coronation, welcoming their new warrior king with open arms.

Ardith did not feel particularly welcoming that spring day. She was tired. Tired of kings and stewards and armies and battles. Tired of sewing shrouds and funeral garb. Tired of shoveling debris and scrubbing red and black blood from stones. Tired of waking up alone every day for six weeks in the house that had once held such joy and love. Nightmares had plagued her since the day of Sauron's fall. Dark dreams of fire and blackened trees. Enough, she suddenly decided. There was no law that said she had to remain here, to give the rest of her life to the city that had taken everything from her. She would attend the coronation, and then she would pack her few belongings and leave. Some small part of her her immediately began questioning the logic of this, but she ignored that voice in favor of the one that promised change was a step toward healing.

_Go to a place that I will show you._

Ardith jerked her head around, searching for the source of the voice.

_For the vision is yet for the appointed time; It hastens toward the goal and it will not fail. __Though it tarries, wait for it; For it will certainly come, it will not delay._

"What vision?" she whispered, certain her grief had driven her mad.

_For wickedness burns like a fire; it consumes briars and thorns. __It even sets the thickets of the forest aflame, and they roll upward in a column of smoke._

_One will come on my behalf, and you will have much to say to him for me._

"Who are you?" she asked, her mouth dry with an uncertain fear; the air around her thick and heavy.

_I am The One._

* * *

_11 November, T.A. 3020_

This dark heaviness was her constant companion, drowning her in its gloom. Ardith tried to press on, to continue her life and her work as best she could, but it became increasingly harder. The effort exhausted her, and slowly she pulled away from the pulse of daily life in the city. Except for her hours at work in the citadel, she remained closeted in her home, only occasionally venturing out to buy food. She climbed the last set of steps and placed her hand on the latch of the door to the sewing workroom, pausing at the voices within.

"Her work is not as…precise as it once was," Brithon said softly, holding out the embroidered bodice of the wedding gown.

Gwaenel sniffed haughtily. "She has let despair consume her, skulking through the city streets as though she were the specter of grief itself. Typical. Ardith has always been one to think too much on her own situation."

"She did lose her family," Brithon chided.

"And who hasn't lost someone, I ask you?" Gwaenel continued. "But you don't see the rest of us driven mad by it. And if you ask me…"

"I do not recall actually doing so," the tailor quietly remarked, but his seamstress continued as though he had not spoken.

"She's guilt-ridden," pronounced the woman triumphantly. "After years of hen-pecking that poor husband of hers and those little boys enduring her sharp tongue, now she's left with only regrets."

"That's enough, Gwaenel," admonished the old man. "I dare say her regrets punish her enough without your help. Leave the woman to her memories. Our only concern is preparing the wedding clothes and trousseau for the Steward and his intended. You must restitch this bodice."

Ardith, standing just outside the door, stuffed a fist to her mouth to prevent a scream escaping. How dare they speak of her so! Turning silently she rushed from the citadel, heedless of the people she shoved past. Reaching her little house, she collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

It wasn't true! She had been a good wife, a good mother. Ríndir had loved her. He hadn't thought she was some sort of…of shrew…had he? Dozens of memories tumbled over themselves in her mind, as the darkness settled in her soul. Their faces rose up before her, accusing…

"You're a hard woman sometimes, my love."

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to break the plate!"

"Can you not give a man a moment's peace?"

"But _why_ can I not play now? Aderthon is going, and his mother says you are too strict!"

Every pause in Ríndir's speech, every sigh, every resigned look came into question. And her boys…had they cowed before her as though she wielded her words like a knife? They were boys. Wild at times and unwilling to obey, so she'd had to be firm. That was all. Wasn't it ? Gwaenel's words echoed in her head, harsh and mocking. But was she being driven mad by grief? Perhaps. After more than a year her nightmares were frequent and unchanging, the voice that spoke of doom relentless.

Enough. She would not subject herself to the snide remarks and glances of her city any longer. If they could not stand her mourning the loss of everything that gave her life meaning, she would trouble them no longer. She had been too feeble to make good on her resolution when King Elessar had taken his throne, uncertain of how she would support herself, but there was no more reason to delay. The past eighteen months had allowed her to save a little money, and lay in some supplies. Now it was time to leave. She supposed she had also stayed waiting to see if there was some glimmer of hope left to her, but she had found none. Her life seemed a farce.

_Therefore, behold, I will allure you, and bring you into the wilderness, and speak kindly to you. __I will set the valley of trouble before you as a doorway to hope._

Curse that voice! Would it never let her be!

* * *

_24, March, Fo.A. 1_

A scream was ripped from her throat as she jerked awake, her bed linens soaked with sweat. Shaking, Ardith threw back the blanket and stumbled from her bed. With trembling hands she lit the lamp and fumbled for a cup of water. Part of her wished she simply relived the horror of Gondor's siege, but her dreams always diverged from those memories. She saw no city, no orcs, heard no wraiths' shriek. There was darkness and fire, and the very foundations of the earth faltered. She watched the charge of the enemies on the field of battle, as if the pillars of the kings had come to life, warriors as tall as mountains. All was death and blood. And then the voice. That rich, deep voice that intruded into her waking moments.

_The Corruptor will be unbound._

Ardith pressed her hands to her ears, trying to drown out the memory. "It's not real. I'm just going mad," she said aloud.

_Sun and Moon die 'ere the trees are reborn._

"Why are you doing this?!" she shouted, flinging her cup of water. The cheap pottery crashed and shattered, leaving a wet trail down the rough stone wall.

A moment later there was a hesitant knock at her door. Ardith released a deep sigh. A traveler would come now? Now that she was shouting at no one in the middle of the night. Throwing a shawl over her nightdress, she opened the door. A man in a hooded cloak stood in the gloom of night, just beyond where her lamp cast its golden glow.

"I was hoping to ask of you some food and perhaps a place to sleep, when I heard a shout. Are you in need of aid?" he asked in a gruff voice.

_HE IS MINE._

The voice rang through her head, and Ardith stumbled back a step. The man moved forward, presumably to assist a woman he must surely assume drunk, and Ardith pulled further away, trying to close the door. "You need not trouble yourself," she mumbled. There is shelter for you in the barn, and you will be welcome to share my breakfast soon after daybreak."

_You will be called out, a city not forsaken. I have not rejected you, and you will not be forgotten by me._

"Please stop," she whispered under her breath, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

"Madame, I only wish to ensure that everything is—" he began as he pushed the door open and walked past her into the house. His words trailed off as he looked around. "But…you are alone," he said, a bewildered note to his voice. "Why were you shouting?"

"Have you not heard of the mad witch in the glen?" she asked acerbically. "A welcome respite for travelers through the forest, but one must keep ever a wary eye open in case she uses you for her own nefarious purposes."

The head under the cloak titled slightly and a wry voice responded, "I believe I will take my chances and trust my fate to Eru."

_In the beginning I am. Before the Elves were awakened. Before the creation of Arda. Before the song of the Ainur._

Ardith felt her guts twist at the words. "What do you know of this name?" she whispered. "Of this voice who will not give me a day's peace? Of these words of doom that burn my very bones as fire for fear I will not speak them aloud?"


	2. Strong

_June 5, T.A. 3003_

"Hello Ardith. And what have you been up to this fine day?"

"I went to the edge of the wood to pick flowers."

"Beyond the gates? Even with the orc raiders making their way through our lands from Mordor?"

_You will not go out in haste, __nor will you go as a fugitive. __But I will go before you __and be your rear guard._

"The woods are safe. At least, I did not sense anything wrong. The animals were peaceful. And you have always said you trusted the horses above the men that ride them."

"I did say that. But I suppose I worry about you. You are brave, but young still to wander so much by yourself."

"Ríndir, do you know of the Valar?"

"Only what I remember from old stories."

"Do you think they're real?"

"If they are real, and they have allowed the evil in Mordor to grow unchecked then they are either not very powerful or heedless of the suffering of men. Perhaps they care only for the Elves."

"I think they talk to me sometimes."

"Do they?

"Mother thinks I make things up, but I hear things…whispers almost. It might be the Valar."

"Do you ever think perhaps you spend too much time alone, Ardith?"

"I prefer to be alone."

"That is probably what concerns your mother."

"I do not care what she thinks, or what anyone thinks. Sometimes I would like to run away and live in the woods."

"You would find it hard work, I imagine."

"I don't mind hard work. You know, you should hang the horses' tack in order of size. It would be easier to fetch them quickly."

"It is not my stable to oversee. I just help care for the horses."

"I think you should be the overseer. Old Alf is too nearsighted and lazy to really care about how things are run. If you would speak up for yourself, maybe you'd have a more desirable position."

"You're a high-handed young miss."

"Why should I not speak out if I see a better way something can be done?"

"People rarely like to be made aware of their own flaws."

"Mother says I need to learn to hold my tongue if I want a man to court me."

"Thinking of that already are you?"

"She is. I am not."

"How old are you now?"

"Thirteen."

"Well when you're my age you'll probably feel differently about it."

"Do you? Are you courting anyone? Surely you're old enough?"

"I am old enough, but there are few who see a stablehand as a good catch."

"Then they're silly, and you shouldn't want to marry them anyway."

"My very thoughts."

"Ríndir?"

"Yes."

"How old will you be when I'm your age?"

"That's rather a roundabout way of asking, but I will be almost thirty."

"Oh. Then I suppose you can not wait for me to grow up."

"Probably not. And your family would not see it as suitable anyway."

"I am to be apprenticed to Lord Denethor's tailor. So it would not matter so much if you remain a stablehand, because I will be earning wages as well."

"That is a bold and gracious offer, but I'm afraid there's a bit more to courting and marriage than just earning a good wage."

"Oh…Well if I can't marry you, then I hope I find someone just like you."

"And why do you say that?"

"Because being with you is almost as good as being alone."

"That is quite a compliment, but I think you should run along home now."

"Very well. But I meant what I said about the tack."

"And I will take the advice to heart, I assure you."

"Goodbye, Ríndir."

* * *

_ January 21, T.A. 3021_

A bitter wind whipped around the stone and sod hut, rattling the wooden door. Ardith poured the boiling water over the tea leaves and watched them unfurl and swirl around the cup. Funny that this memory should come to mind, the first time she wondered what it might be like to be married to that stablehand. She'd quite forgotten about the voice, that it had called out to her when she was young. But thinking on it now she realized that was also the day she had begun to intentionally tune the voice out. Ríndir had felt the Valar weak or perhaps uncaring, and if that was what he thought, she did not want to hear from them again. And for fifteen years she had not, not until the day of King Elessar's coronation almost two years ago.

Since that time the voice had been relentless, speaking of fire and death and destruction. She wondered if the deaths of her husband and sons had been punishment for ignoring it. Losing everything had pushed her to withdraw from the life she had known, and Ardith left with no plans other than to put as much distance as possible between herself and the White City. Then two days into her journey she had stumbled upon this house, more a hut, abandoned in the woods. It wasn't quite as far out as she had thought to go, but it was far enough away that she could not see the rise of Minas Tirith against the horizon.

The qualities so despaired of by her mother that labeled her reckless, stubborn, and unsociable, Ríndir had called out as fearlessness, perseverance, and a simple desire for solitude. And the attributes had served her in good stead out here in the forest. She was able to find most of what she needed to survive, and only occasionally ventured out to a nearby village, another day's journey beyond for supplies or to sell pieces she had sewn.

_You will not go out in haste, __nor will you go as a fugitive. __But I will go before you __and be your rear guard._

And the voice of course had followed her out to this small glen in the forest, and in the midst of its warnings there were whispers of hope and love and peacefulness, things she had not felt for months. And it kept on at her about waiting for someone. It was unsettling, but in the curious way that humans adapt to all manner of strange things, Ardith settled into her seclusion and resigned herself to living with it, waiting for whomever it would send, and acknowledging it would probably drive her to the brink of insanity before the end.

* * *

_24, March, Fo.A. 1 _

The stranger grew very still and Ardith could feel his stare, though his face remained shadowed by the cloak. "You want to know of Eru?"

Ardith nodded once.

"Because you think he has been speaking to you?" There was no trace of skepticism in his tone, but Ardith bristled regardless.

"You need not heed my words," she snapped. "I have told you there is a place for you to sleep in the barn. Go and leave me to my madness."

"Sit down," he said sternly. "There is no cause for you to take umbrage at my questions. Mad or not, I am perfectly willing to speak with you about this…and if you would not mind perhaps making us some tea first, that would be most welcome. It is rather a chilly night."

With a sigh, the stranger removed his cloak and draped it over the back of a chair before sinking wearily into it. Ardith watched him out of the corner of her eye as she filled the kettle with water from the bucket and lifted it onto the metal hanger in the fireplace. He removed a long pipe from leather case on his belt, and then rummaged in a small pouch for enough pipeweed to fill the bowl. Taking a long straw from the kindling box, he lit the tip in the fire and from that lit his pipe, drawing on it gently.

"What is your name?" Ardith asked abruptly, taking the seat across from him.

"Údar," he answered simply.

"And how do you know of this voice, this Eru that disturbs me waking or sleeping?"

"That is a longer story," Údar replied, puffing on the pipe. The scented smoke rose serenely into the air and Ardith felt herself calm. "Eru Illúvatar is…well, he simply is. He is the Allfather, one who gives life, who began creation with the Valar…Out of curiosity, what has he said?"

Ardith gave a slight shudder. "He speaks of the end of the world, the doom of all creation. And then he will speak of hope, of peace. It confounds me. He also said that you were his."

Údar stared at her, his dark eyes startled. "Did he?" He shifted uneasily in his chair and drew once more on his pipe, exhaling a cloud of smoke that obscured his face for a moment. "Did he indeed?"


	3. Resolved

_January 15, Fo.A. 3_

It began as a trickle that grew to a flood, the exodus of Gondor. Thuringwethil wasted no time in establishing her reign of terror, and the people fled. Ardith saw more people pass by her small glen in a week than in all the three years since she herself left the city — merchants with carts weighed down, soldiers on foot and horseback, families. She knew from the tales they brought with them out of the city that she would have to move on soon as well. A ruler that thirsted for power and blood would not be content to remain being the great wall of Minas Tirith for long.

_Wait. Be strong and let your heart take courage. Wait._

But the voice. The one the traveler Údar referred to as Eru Ilúvatar. He kept saying to wait, so she waited. They had settled into something like a truce, Ardith and the voice in her head that could both whisper sweetly and resound fiercely. Months passed, the flow of refugees had all but stopped. And still she waited.

* * *

_April 20, Fo.A. 3_

He startled her, the man striding from the shadows of the forest. Ardith watched him warily from her doorway, where she had stepped out to dump the wash water. The day was chill and wet for April, and the man wore a thick cloak that drooped down over his eyes, hiding his face.

"Can you offer me food and shelter for the night?" he called to her in a rough voice.

_He is a wielder of the sword. An expert in war to guard against the terrors of the night. A watchman of my house. Surely this is the day for which you waited._

So this was it then. Ardith nodded stiffly to the man and turned back into the house. She set the pot of stew on the table with a loaf of bread as the man came to the open door and pushed back the hood of the cloak. "Sit," she said, waving him toward the table as she took in his short, dark hair and long scar that cut in above his left eye. He was a grim figure, and no mistake.

He hesitated before removing his cloak and draping over the back of his chair, dumping a small pack on the floor. "Thank you," he said softly, taking a seat at the table.

"My name is Ardith," she said without preamble. "Have you come from the city?"

"Yes," he answered around a mouthful of stew.

"And where are you heading?"

"Not really any of your business is it?" he said, glaring down at his plate.

Ardith leaned her hip against the small cupboard where she stored her dishes and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at him until the uncomfortable silence forced him to look up at her. Meeting her eyes he grunted what might have been an apology.

"I need to head north," she said, taking the seat across from him. "If you haven't any other plans I would like to hire you to accompany me. I've never traveled through the wilds and I will need an accomplished guide."

"How far north?" he asked, looking grudgingly interested.

"I will know when I arrive," she said simply. "But I suspect the region of Arnor."

"That's not an easy journey," he said in a slightly scolding tone. "If you're strong and willing, it may take two months. But you should plan on three or more."

Ardith nodded. "I have been laying aside provisions. We can leave at first light."

He was clearly shocked by this statement. "What is so urgent that you are willing to travel with the first stranger that approaches your door?"

"You are hardly the first. And that story will unfold as we travel. Now what is your name?"

"Aharron," he replied, tearing into a piece of bread.

It was certainly the quietest journey through the wilds that Aharron had ever experienced, almost unnatural the way they never encountered any problems. He'd been unsure about traveling with a woman, particularly one who had never in her life traveled further than the two days journey from Minas Tirith. But Ardith had surprised him. She was quiet and undemanding, and if they went slower than he would have liked, it was only because she was took so much time at their campsites. After each meal some of their water ration was boiled and poured over a pinch of tea leaves that she carried in a small pouch. That pouch amused him for some reason, looking very much like a pouch of pipeweed. And the few times he'd deemed it too dangerous to risk a fire she had grumbled at him, missing her ritual of the tea. Then each evening before the fire she pulled a tightly rolled fabric from her pack, squinting in the firelight as she embroidered an intricate pattern of yellow flowers. When he asked her what it was for, she merely shrugged and said when the right person needed it she would know.

It was a pleasant journey. The few instances her natural temperament made an appearance, Ardith spoke reverently of her husband and lively sons, but the upper classes among whom she had worked were often on the receiving end of a tart remark. She told several stories of the young lords Boromir and Faramir causing all kinds of mayhem when they were being fitted for court attire. And she eventually shared why she had withdrawn to the woods. Well, he could understand that, hadn't he behaved much the same? Some wounds were too deep to be seen, and no amount of time would erase them.

It took longer for her to share the not-so-minor detail that she was taking her instruction from a voice in her head. The ludicrous idea should have made him drop her off in the nearest village and move on. But instead he found himself feeling a little protective of her. Aharron wasn't sure what exactly she was looking for, indeed Ardith herself didn't seem to know, but he thought perhaps helping her might be a step towards atoning for his own sins.

* * *

_August 10, Fo.A. 3_

They arrived at the city of Annúminas, and were amazed at the number of their people that had made it to this northern realm of the Dúnedain. Though ruined structures stood all around, reconstruction of the city was well underway. As they entered the city gates, Aharron stopped a merchant. "Who is the lord of these lands?" he asked gruffly.

The merchant scratched his head squinting at the strange pair. "I expect you'll be wanting to talk with the steward then, Lord Boromir."

Ardith raised her eyebrows. "Lord Boromir? Yes, I expect we do."

They worked their way to the city center and almost stumbled into the very man they sought. He was making his way around market stalls with a young woman, her long brown hair pulled back in a simple braid.

"I do not see anything that is as you describe," Boromir complained, throwing his hands in the air. "I think you are perhaps being too fastidious."

"But Uncle, it is my wedding," the girl responded, smiling at him pertly. "Surely a woman is allowed to be a little fastidious about her wedding clothes."

"That mossy green is a terrible color on you," Ardith said loudly.

Boromir turned in surprise at being addressed so. "I beg your pardon?"

Ardith's mouth titled up with just the hint of a smile. "I've always said it made you look sallow. The reds suit your coloring much better."

A confused look etched itself across Boromir's face as he studied her. "Do I know you?"

"You once did, my lord. I was a seamstress in the citadel at Minas Tirith. Your squire tied my braids to a reel of flax."

His eyes widened and he huffed a surprised laugh. "I remember that. Your hair was just the same color as the thread. Ardith, yes?"

She nodded and dug around in her pack, pulling out the roll of linen. "I wonder if this might suit the young lady?"

The girl came forward and took the fabric, partially unrolling it. Her dainty fingers examined the tight, even stitches of the yellow flowers, and she looked back at Ardith, beaming. "This is lovely! Will you sell it to me?"

"I think a better question might be would you take over the entire task of sewing Ninel's dress?" said Boromir. "You should have plenty of time. The event is months away."

"I will," replied Ardith decisively. "We are only just arrived in the city. Would you know of a place my friend and I could stay?"

Boromir looked at her curiously, and then at the man beside her. "I think," he said slowly. "You can stay with us."

Ardith nodded. "Very good, my lord. Because I bring a message for you, from Eru Ilúvatar."


	4. Uncertain

_June 1, Fo.A. 3_

It was a foolish choice, and one she would take care not to repeat. Coping with her grief had resulted in some decidedly odd habits, and now she was stuck, quite literally. Ardith had not looked at her own hair in five years, keeping it covered while awake, and plaited back while asleep. But this foray into the wilderness was wrecking havoc on her carefully constructed customs, routines she had built into her life as a widow, alone in the forest.

Her compulsion had even gone so far as to take down and braid her hair away from the firelight, so that Aharron could not see it's color. And this night, tucked away near a tree, she was quickly trying to comb it through when a wind stirred up some small branches whose gnarled fingers reached down and grabbed for the long golden locks. Now here she sat, each gust of wind pulling painfully at the strands tangled around the small branches.

Ardith tried in vain to undo the snarled sections of hair, but only managed to make things worse. She sat very still, hoping against hope Aharron wouldn't notice she was just sitting there, instead of returning to the fire to fetch her bedroll. But of course he did notice. He noticed everything.

It began with just a glance. He knew the routine and how long it took her. Next was another glance, a hesitation, and the decision to pull out her pack and arrange her bedroll himself. A third glance, longer this time, and could she make out his features in the dim glow of the fire, questioning. Another uncertain pause and he walked towards her.

"We should turn in if you want to leave at first light," Aharron said, unable to bring himself to say what he wanted. _Why are you just sitting there? You could have braided your hair three times over. Why do you move away from the fire to do this each night?_

"Yes," Ardith said simply, looking past him into the dark of the forest and wishing he would turn and leave now that he'd said his piece.

As she made no move to rise, Aharron frowned and shifted on his feet. "Is something wrong?" he asked gruffly.

"Not at all," Ardith replied, but in an effort to appear nonchalant, she tilted her head to pretend to gaze up at the sky and winced as the branches tugged at her hair.

Aharron caught the expression and stepped sideways to peer at her hair. "You're all snarled up here," he said in exasperation. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I'm perfectly capable…" she began, but the disbelieving snort from the man behind her silenced the remaining words.

"Hold still," he muttered, and Ardith could feel the long strands of hair being gently lifted and unwound from their scabrous captors.

"There," Aharron said decisively after a few moments, and Ardith darted up from her seat and away from him, halting in the shadows beyond the firelight. She saw him scowl and war with himself over whether or not to question her bizarre behavior, but he settled for simply shaking his head and returning to his seat by the fire.

Ardith tried to comb out her hair as quickly as she could, but the tree had tangled it terribly, and it took an inordinately long time, her scalp rather sore. Her own mind began to argue both for and against giving up the need to hide her hair. Ríndir himself would have found the habit needless. He gained no greater love or honor if she refused other's compliments for a feature she had no control over. And it was rather impertinent to assume anyone else would even think her hair attractive. But it felt like the last shared tie to her husband, and she was loathe to release it. Back and forth and around and around her thoughts swirled as she picked apart the knots and pulled the comb through over and over.

As she finished and moved to begin rebraiding, she caught Aharron watching her, a skeptical confusion written across his face. He probably thought her ridiculous, which until lately, wouldn't have bothered Ardith at all. But they had been traveling together for over a month now, the longest she had spent in anyone's company since her husband and sons had been killed, and she had started to consider the rough, taciturn man her friend. Heaven knows he put up with enough of her quirks, making sure there was extra water for tea and keeping the fire going longer so she had enough light to sew, perhaps just for tonight she didn't need to worry about her hair. Gathering up her courage, Ardith placed the comb in the little bag at her waist and returned to the fire.

Far be it from him to understand the foibles of the fairer sex, Aharron thought, internally shrugging. Her hair was quite pretty as far as hair went. She glanced at him once, uneasily, so he pretended to ignore the fact that she was sitting there for the first time with her hair unbound, a golden river spilling down her back.

The small black kettle he had placed in the middle of the flames began to sing, and he grabbed it out of the fire with forked stick. Ardith reached for the kettle with her hands well wrapped in a long piece of cloth, and poured the boiling water into her little cup. A lock of hair fell over her shoulder and she froze for a moment, her eyes darting from the kettle to the hair to Aharron's face and back again.

Aharron cleared his throat and leaned back on his elbows. "I expect you'll sleep better with your hair down. Head must be a bit painful from the branches pulling at it."

"Yes, it is," Ardith replied almost in a whisper.

Aharron gave a brief nod and said no more. He guessed he kept his own secrets well enough to allow her hers.


	5. Friends

_Fo.A. 19_

Aharron shrugged out of the last of his armor and piled it up to be cleaned. Rolling his shoulders to stretch out the stiff muscles, he moved to the wash basin and began scrubbing away the sweat and grime of the long march. One of the lads who worked in the kitchen peeked his head around the corner hesitantly. "Food's almost ready, sir. Cook says I'm to call the men in to eat."

Grabbing for a towel, Aharron wiped his face as he nodded at the boy. "Inform the others. I shall be taking my meal elsewhere."

The boy grinned at him cheekily. "Ay, sir. Cook said as you had a lady friend you visited."

The old soldier glared daggers at the boy. "If I see fit to visit anywhere it will be because I'm assured of being given a better meal there than the slop served here. Tell Cook to keep that gossip to himself."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

The boy darted away and Aharron finished washing up and dressed in the one set of clean clothes he had tucked away. Making his way out of the barracks he paused to bow his head as King Boromir and his entourage passed by.

To his surprise, the sovereign stopped and turned to him. "My good man, please convey our thanks to your wife for the items she sent over for my great nephew. Highest quality, as always."

Aharron looked at him in bewilderment. "My apologies, Sire. I am happy to convey your thanks, but Ardith is not my wife."

"Ah, your intended then. I am sorry. I just assumed after so long…"

"Nor is she my intended. We are merely…friends."

It was the king's turn to look bewildered. "Indeed? Well then. I need not make you my messenger, if you are not going home to see her."

Fighting annoyance and the uncomfortable feeling of being scrutinized, Aharron cleared his throat. "As it happens, I am going to be seeing her this evening. And I will pass on your gratitude."

King Boromir raised his eyebrows slightly and then nodded. "Very well. Thank you."

"Your Majesty," he responded with another bow, and quickly turned to leave and make his way into the old city, grumbling as he did so. Why did people insist on making assumptions about his life? If he happened to share a meal with that woman now and again it was nobody else's concern. She was alone. Someone needed to look in on her once in a while.

The reasonable thing to do would have been for Ardith to marry again. Not him of course. He was a soldier, and there was no room in his life for any romantic entanglements. But she could marry someone else. The niggling voice in the back of his mind reminded him that while it may be a reasonable course of action, Ardith was frequently an unreasonable woman. Why else had it taken years for her to do something as simple as remove a head covering? Not to mention the odd things she heard or the visions she had. Aharron huffed irritably as he turned down the small side street where Ardith lived. The likelihood that she'd even listen to such a suggestion was slim, not to mention the trouble of finding someone suitable.

* * *

Ardith pulled the fragrant loaf of bread from the oven and set it on her small table. The men were due to return sometime today, so it was likely Aharron would come by tomorrow. He would appreciate the meal. Heaven knew the food they ate while they were out on patrols or raiding orc strongholds.

She tutted softly to herself, as she crushed some dried rosemary to add to the stew simmering away over the fire. That man needed a wife, no matter what he said. She'd been keeping an eye on likely candidates, but most usually came up wanting. Aharron was a difficult man, and no mistake. It would take a particular someone to understand the wounds from his past and not take it personally when he descended into bouts of grim silence.

The fierce pounding on the door startled her, and Ardith brushed her hands on her apron before opening it. The cloaked and hooded figure stood there, practically radiating annoyance.

"That knock was enough to wake the dead," Ardith remarked dryly. "I expected you tomorrow."

Aharron entered the small house, shrugging off his cloak. "I reckoned anything you had to eat would be preferable to that new cook at the barracks."

"Yes, that news has reached the king," she laughed softly. "He mentioned this week that they were looking for someone else, but it is difficult to plan and prepare supplies for so many men. It takes someone with experience."

Aharron grunted in reply and sank into one of the wooden chairs at the table. Ardith looked him over critically, noting the weariness of his movements and the circles under his eyes. "This mission…"

"Eventful," he sighed. "The king's niece inadvertently released some sort of hellhound from a dungeon. We lost a few good men. Then she had her baby right there at Carn Dûm."

Ardith gaped at him, forgetting for the moment she was holding a ladle dripping with broth. "She never did! What happened? What is it?"

His expression softened for a moment. "Strong young lad, err, Elf I suppose. They called him Lendír."

"Well," she breathed, her eyes alight with excitement. "It would seem I finished that layette just in time."

"Ah, yes," Aharron shook his head, not certain if he wanted to laugh or hold on to his irritation. "I passed by the king as I was leaving. He asked me to convey his gratitude for the baby things…to my wife."

Ardith stared at him for a moment before narrowing her eyes. "If you've been giving the impression that someone else is responsible for all that work, I—"

"No, you daft woman!" Laughter won out, and a gruff chuckle escaped his lips. "He thinks you're my wife."

"What?! Why of all the impertinence…I hope you told him exactly what you thought of that!"

"He's the king, Ardith. Most people are disinclined to address him as familiarly as you do."

"Well, it's a ridiculous notion. Not that you couldn't be married. I for one thing you should be. In fact, I was wondering about the sister of the fishmonger. You know, the one that pulls his dilapidated old cart around and sings about the fish."

"You must be joking."

"Why should I be joking? Of course I found out she gets quite ill at the sight of blood. Probably wouldn't be that good at handling things if you were ever wounded."

"Probably not," he said dryly. "But while we're on the subject, what about the stone mason that's been working on the repairing the walls around the king's garden? He's been a widow for a good while now."

"Oh? And which one of you would wear the wedding dress?"

"Now who's being ridiculous? He seems a good steady type. Although his daughter is rather flighty."

"I am not discussing this," Ardith said firmly, plunking a bowl of stew down in front of him and snatching up a large knife. Aharron watched her warily as she waved around the sharp instrument before plunging it into the bread. "I don't need another husband."

"You don't want someone to look after you? Just to have the company now and again?"

"I'm quite capable of looking after myself. And you come around too often to keep me desperate for company."

Aharron murmured an acknowledgement of that as he tucked into the meal. As Ardith watched him, she shook her head in exasperation. "You'd think you hadn't had a regular meal before the way you're shoveling that down. If anyone needs to be married, it's you. Now be honest. Don't you want someone to welcome you home and see you're properly looked after?"

Aharron stopped mid bite and glared at her. "I am not the marrying kind," he said firmly.

"Well neither am I. So let's just leave things as they are. Agreed?"

"Agreed," he said gruffly. After they ate in silence for a few minutes, Aharron finally looked over at Ardith. "I noticed the cloth merchants around the west corner from the tower had a blue weave that looked like what you had mentioned wanting. It's in my pack if you want to take a look."

Ardith beamed at him. "Thank you! I thought it would be nice for Lady Ninel to have a new dress while the baby was still small. Before she has to worry about trying to fit back into her other things."

Aharron nodded and returned to his meal, thinking back over his interaction with the cook's boy and the king. Silly assumptions people made.


End file.
